Timur Bekmambetov has made a career out of making audiences stare at screens within screens.
His latest film, Mercy, starring Chris Pratt, pushes his “screenlife” obsession to new extremes—and might just be the wake-up call nobody asked for about our collective screen addiction.
Set in a dystopian 2029 Los Angeles, the thriller follows a man fighting for his life against an AI judge while strapped to a chair that could kill him at any moment.
But beyond the sci-fi premise lies an uncomfortable mirror reflecting our modern relationship with technology—and it’s not a pretty picture.
Screen Overload in Cinema Form
Bekmambetov isn’t new to this format. He produced Unfriended and Searching, and directed Profile—all films told entirely through computer screens, phone cameras, and surveillance footage.
Mercy continues this trend with doorbell cams, body cameras, drone footage, and iPhone recordings dominating the visual landscape. For anyone trying to reduce screen time in their daily life, watching this film creates an almost ironic discomfort.
The relentless bombardment of low-resolution footage from multiple devices creates visual fatigue that mirrors exactly what health experts warn against in our everyday lives.
The Mental Health Cost of Constant Surveillance
What makes Mercy particularly relevant isn’t just its gimmick—it’s how closely it resembles our actual existence. We live in a world where Ring doorbells record our comings and goings, where smartphones capture every moment, and where AI increasingly makes decisions that affect our lives.
Chris Pratt’s character, Chris Raven, wakes up in the “Mercy Chair” after an alcohol-fueled blackout. He has 90 minutes to prove to an AI judge named Maddox that he didn’t murder his wife.
Throughout his ordeal, every piece of evidence comes from digital surveillance—a chilling reminder of how thoroughly documented our lives have become.
Research consistently shows that excessive screen time correlates with increased anxiety, depression, and sleep disturbances. The film inadvertently demonstrates why: constant digital mediation of experience removes us from direct human connection.
When Technology Replaces Human Judgment
Rebecca Ferguson plays Judge Maddox, an artificial intelligence system that Raven himself once championed as a police detective. The AI has access to all video footage stored in the cloud, creating an omniscient digital overseer.
This setup raises uncomfortable questions about our growing reliance on algorithmic decision-making. From social media feeds to job applications to criminal justice, AI increasingly shapes outcomes that affect real human lives.
The film portrays Maddox as impassive and data-driven, only later revealing hints of emotionality seeping into her programming. This progression mirrors ongoing debates about whether AI can truly understand human context, nuance, and morality.
Physical Stillness, Mental Chaos
Pratt spends nearly 90 minutes strapped motionless in the Mercy Chair. Without his usual physicality and humor, the performance exposes limitations—but also something more interesting.
His immobility while surrounded by screens perfectly captures modern life. We sit still for hours daily, eyes fixed on glowing rectangles, bodies inactive while minds race through endless digital stimulation.
Health professionals increasingly warn about “sitting disease”—the constellation of health problems arising from sedentary behavior combined with screen exposure. Cardiovascular issues, metabolic disorders, and musculoskeletal problems all stem partly from this modern lifestyle pattern.
Watching Pratt’s character frantically video-call his teenage daughter, his AA sponsor, and his police partner while physically trapped mirrors how technology promises connection while often delivering isolation.
The Irony of Screen-Based Entertainment
There’s profound irony in making a movie about screen addiction that can only be consumed by… staring at a screen. The format itself becomes commentary.
By the reviewer’s admission, the constant low-resolution footage proves wearisome. Three editors worked to make the material dynamic, yet visual fatigue sets in regardless.
This exhaustion isn’t unique to Mercy. Studies on digital eye strain show that prolonged screen viewing causes symptoms including headaches, blurred vision, dry eyes, and difficulty focusing—exactly what extended viewing of multi-screen footage would trigger.
Breaking the Fourth Wall of Digital Life
When Mercy finally delivers a truck-and-car chase through Los Angeles streets—filmed traditionally—it feels like relief. Like eating dessert after a bland meal, as noted in the original review.
That relief speaks volumes. Direct visual storytelling without digital mediation feels refreshing precisely because it’s become rare—both in cinema and life.
How often do we experience moments without immediately reaching for phones to document them? When did watching an event through a screen become more important than experiencing it directly?
Practical Lessons from Dystopian Fiction
While Mercy is set in 2029, its world feels uncomfortably close to 2025 reality. The film’s premise—that AI judges and total surveillance are just years away—demonstrates both technological optimism and social pessimism.
For viewers concerned about screen addiction and digital wellness, the film offers accidental guidance:
- Recognize surveillance saturation: Every device with a camera contributes to digital documentation of life
- Question algorithmic authority: AI systems lack human judgment, empathy, and contextual understanding
- Notice physical immobility: Screen time correlates directly with sedentary behavior
- Value unmediated experience: Direct engagement beats digital documentation
- Acknowledge digital fatigue: Constant screen exposure exhausts mind and body
The Need for Digital Detox
The reviewer’s final observation—that audiences will need a digital detox after watching—isn’t just film criticism. It’s health advice.
Mental health professionals increasingly recommend regular screen breaks, device-free zones, and intentional unplugging. These aren’t optional luxuries but necessary interventions against technology overexposure.
Mercy may not be great cinema, but it’s an effective cautionary tale. By pushing screen-based storytelling to uncomfortable extremes, it reveals what we’re doing to ourselves daily.
Whether Bekmambetov intended this meta-commentary or simply pursued his stylistic obsession matters less than the result: a film that makes screen addiction visible by making it unbearable.
Sometimes awareness comes not from gentle persuasion but from confronting excess. Mercy offers that confrontation—and the discomfort might be exactly what screen-saturated audiences need.